


counting days won't buy us years

by lost_decade



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2016, Alcohol and Sadness, Angst, Complicated Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10924404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: On the night of Nico's Championship win Lewis just can't stay away.





	counting days won't buy us years

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Wings by HAERTS

The minibar is empty – that’s definitely the only reason why Lewis is even contemplating going to join in with Nico’s celebrations.

He lines up all the little empty miniatures on the desk, aligning the labels so they’re all facing forwards. In hindsight maybe he shouldn’t have knocked them all back the moment he got back to the hotel, saving a couple instead for when the inevitable 3AM sleeplessness kicks in. The hotel bar is only a few floors up but the thought of coming face to face with Toto’s angry scowl again is highly unappealing and Lewis has already very nearly told him he can screw his fucking team once tonight because he’d rather go and drive for Sauber than put up with anymore of this shit.

Of course he’s just as likely to bump into Toto at the party but somehow that doesn’t occur to him, nor does the idea that he could in fact simply call down to reception and order a fucking banquet and ten bottles of champagne if he wanted to.

The truth is he doesn’t want to be alone, and even being in a crowd of people, half of whom actually hate you and the other half who hate you but like the size of your wallet enough to pretend they don’t is better than sitting here by himself. And yeah okay, part of him is curious too; it’s a long time since he’s seen happiness on Nico’s face and he’s almost forgotten what it looks like, has boxed away that little part of himself that existed purely to make him smile, has put aside the swooping-butterflies-colliding-in-his-stomach feeling that he always used to get with the knowledge that Nico’s joy was all his doing.

Not that he’s going there to see Nico, he’s going purely to not be sitting stewing over his thoughts and washing and rewashing his hands until the skin feels raw.

He looks himself over in the bathroom mirror, harsh lights exposing all the little red threads across the whites of his eyes. He doesn’t remember when he stopped sleeping properly, he always used to when he was young, waking up refreshed and excited to get in his kart, blond hair tickling his neck and an erection pressed between his arse cheeks.

Fuck it, he thinks, he’ll just have a couple of drinks and show them that he’s not a sore loser and then he’s done.

*

The place is rammed as expected, and Lewis instantly hates it, remembering why he doesn’t normally go to these sort of events where drivers, celebrities and hangers-on collide.

It reminds him too that so many of them on the grid are actually good mates away from it – the Torro Rosso boys talking animatedly at the edge of the dance floor, Carlos’ hair falling into his eyes only for Daniil to brush it away for him.

Lewis breathes in sharply at that.

Daniel too is laughing with Felipe, the latter clearly already worse for wear and making the most of his final day as a Formula One driver. He likes some of the other drivers well enough, but there’s no one he’d really call a friend, not anymore. Sipping at his vodka lemonade, he chats to Naomi Campbell, the model hugging him close protectively, almost like a big sister before she moves on to speak to someone else. 

Nicole always loved these sort of events, Lewis thinks out of nowhere. And where the hell did that come from?

He has another drink, then another and another, someone handing him a jeroboam of champagne that he ends up swigging straight out of. All the while he’s hyper-aware of Nico up in the other VIP area, his voice filtering down over the music occasionally, hoarse from drinking and singing. He abandons any pretense in his own mind about not wanting to go over but there’s always something stopping him lately and even with not quite knowing exactly why they’re like this (or he does know sort of, so the question is why has he let it go on this way for so long) he still hasn’t made any move to fix it.

Eventually it is Nico who finds him, accidentally or not, Lewis isn’t sure.

“You’re here,” Nico says, and the smile that lights up his face, flushed and exhausted with the addictive happiness that comes only from winning, almost feels like a punch to Lewis’ stomach. He takes in the sight of him, blond hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead, his features softer and relaxed with alcohol and relief.

In that moment he looks so young and Lewis just wants to say _remember all the nights we spent talking about this_ because honestly it feels like they’ve both forgotten and having Nico standing in front of him as champion brings back so many memories of those times. It all feels so sour. He can't be happy for Nico the way he wants to be.

“I wanted to say congratulations, man,” Lewis yells over the music. “I know Toto’s pissed, but you…you get it right? I had to give it everything.”

“Let's not talk about that now,” Nico replies, and then he's leaning in close, his breath on Lewis’ face making the older man shiver.

Lewis wants him but it’s a ghost he desires. The remnants of the old version of himself from ten years ago wants the old version of Nico. _I like it when it’s just us two_ , he’d said in the press conference the other day. It’s never just the two of them though anymore, it’s the two of them and Vivian and four World Championships and a truckload of PR bullshit.

“Come and get some air?” Nico says, cupping a hand around his mouth so that Lewis can hear properly.

They head out of the side entrance onto the back terrace and the smoking area reserved for Amber Lounge staff.

“I knew you had it in you. The win I mean,” Lewis says. He’s trying hard not to look at Nico, which is really quite difficult when he’s standing there swaying slightly with his shirt hanging open.

He always did like to get naked when he drank, the shy boy turned exhibitionist, knowing how much it got to Lewis, dancing with other guys in clubs shirtless and suggestive. Those nights Lewis would lead him into the men’s room and press him up against the cubicle door, making sure he knew who he belonged to. It occurs to him now that the power was probably mostly Nico’s, that Nico had never really been his. Lewis was the one in trouble right from the very beginning, the one naïve enough to think it was going to last.

“So did I,” Nico replies, a little too defensively. Not a safe subject even when drunk - perhaps especially when drunk.  

Thinking about it now Lewis can’t recall exactly how it felt to win his first title, all he remembers is the argument they’d had afterwards and how nothing has ever felt quite the same since then; Nico insisting he was happy for Lewis even as his eyes told a different story. It was always between them after that – Nico’s callousness that Lewis knew was made up only of fear, simmering away under the surface. The thing he’d never said and that Lewis should have made him talk about back then, the fear of being left behind, of being the one without a Championship when both his lover and his dad had one – the fear that he just wasn’t quite good enough.

Lewis had played on it in later years, used it against him because he could, because it was the advantage that he needed to win his second title, his third, all as Nico still kept falling short.

If he knew how to, Lewis would tell him that he’s ashamed of himself and of the games he’s played, but it’s all tangled up among other things that are too dangerous to unravel. Next year, he promises himself, next year they won’t do any of this bullshit because it’s different now. It’ll be different. They’ll both be on the grid as champions and it’s gonna be magnificent.

He tries to tell Nico this but he must’ve drunk more than he thought because it doesn’t come out as eloquently as it’d sounded in his head. All he can get out is “we both did it, man. Next year’s gonna be so awesome.”

The look that crosses Nico’s face is one that Lewis has never seen before, that he can’t place. “I’m sorry,” Nico whispers, and then he’s grabbing at Lewis’ shirt and pulling him closer, kissing him hard and desperate, pushing his tongue into Lewis’ mouth like he owns him.

Clinging to each other, hands grabbing as they try to get closer – as if they could almost become one person rather than two – they kiss with an aggression reserved only for each other until eventually Lewis pulls away, resting his lips against Nico’s stubbled jaw. His breathing slows in sync with Nico’s, and he takes a step back, studying the dishevelled world champion and letting himself feel for a moment all the turbulence he’s tried to keep on lockdown. There are so many things Lewis wants to say, but instead he slides his hands around Nico’s neck as though he’s something so precious, pressing their lips together again before slipping his hands down Nico’s chest. His skin, sweaty and slick beneath Lewis’ palms with the heat of dancing and the desert, is evocative of other nights, years of touching and learning each other. There isn't a single part of Nico’s body that Lewis hasn't touched, all of him is so deeply intimately ingrained into Lewis’ mind. The reverse is also the case and it stings, the knowledge that the only person who ever truly knew him looked into his soul and walked away.  

Lewis’ hands stop at the waistband of Nico’s trousers and fuck he’s about to ask, offer,  _beg_ Nico to come back to his room; but then the door opens and the calm of the desert night is disturbed by thumping bass and chatter and Georg is standing there drunk and grinning as he beckons them back inside.

Lewis catches hold of Nico’s sleeve as they walk down the corridor, suddenly remembering something. “What are you sorry for?” he asks, puzzled.

Nico stops walking and turns back to touch his face, that same look in his eyes that Lewis just doesn’t get. “I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he says.

Lewis is about to ask more but then they enter the main dance floor and the throng of people is too vast, the music too loud. They all end up with their arms around each other – Nico and Lewis, Vivian, Georg and Daniel Ricciardo passing round what Lewis hopes is an unworn racing boot filled with tequila.

The alcohol burns his throat on the way down but it doesn’t matter because Nico is smiling fondly at him and this could be it, Lewis thinks. This could be the start of them fixing it all. In that moment he convinces himself that next year is going to be their best as teammates yet.


End file.
